


By Treason And Their Own Device

by Oblivian03



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble, Gen, Politics, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 06:27:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17844170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oblivian03/pseuds/Oblivian03
Summary: Bound in a cell Ñolofinwë thinks on how he came to this place. An AU drabble where his people commit mutiny against him after Fingon returns.





	By Treason And Their Own Device

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am not Tolkien and never will be.
> 
> As in the summary, this is an AU where Fingolfin's people turn against him shortly after Fingon returns with Maedhros. It's fairly short and not sure how good it is, but enjoy! I use the Quenya names - if you need translations, they are at the bottom.

The stone was cold, dry but lifeless and an unpleasant reminder of the Helcaraxë. Ñolofinwë shifted against it, uncomfortable but too proud and scared to voice such sentiment. His bound hands made the movement more awkward, merely increasing the discomfort he felt. It faded soon after, back to that numb tingling in his fingertips. He closed his eyes and cursed the world.

The night had begun so well, his nephew at last sleeping without nightmares, his eldest son also asleep for once though even then he maintained vigil by his cousin’s side. Ñolofinwë had been in the sitting room, speaking calmly with Lalwendë when there had come a knock on their door and he had risen to let in those who would quickly turn against them. For the betrayal had come from their own, the Noldor in all their bitterness, and now he dwelt in this crude made cell with its lack of light and rough-hewn walls. Was this what it had been like for Maitimo? Endless worry and boredom with nothing but one’s own thoughts to pass the ever-stale time. He could not tell what time of day it was or even if the sun had broken over the horizon.

There was just that maddening waiting.

Minute rolled into minute, each one a moment of the same, tingling fingers and cramping legs from where he was forced to sit by a chain linked from wrists to wall, cold skin, cold stone, itching clothes and too-present breaths, the overwhelming worry for his children that consumed him more wholly than Ungoliant ever did the light. If someone would just come, just give him news of anything, then his mind could be alleviated just a little. But no one came for Ñolofinwë and Finwë’s son found himself stuck in the same loop as before.

Why had this happened? Why had this come to be? The question that plagued him like little else did now. Over and over and over: why would they turn on him?

The answer seemed absurd, too far out of his grasp to know for he always had strived to be the best leader for his people. Yet, with that distant absurdity there also lurked doubt, its bedfellows bloodied swords and chilling winds raised by his own voice, and the audience that listened was fashioned out of ghosts, pale faces that stared with sightless eyes and damned him like that smoke risen from the shores of Losgar.

Leaning his head back against the wall, Ñolofinwë tried to drive out these thoughts. They would not help him. They would not help his children, all now subject to this madness.

Findekáno had been apprehended alongside his ailing cousin, dragged from the sickroom in chains for they others feared the elf who could walk through Angamando unharmed. His fair face had been bloodied though there was not enough time for any of them to have put up a fight. Now the fate of his eldest remained unknown as did the fate of all his children. Írissë had been hunting. If the mutiny was as widespread as he feared, she, at least, might get away. Arakáno was already safe in Nämo’s halls. Sweet Itarillë too might have escaped with Lalwendë, his sister having grabbed the child and leapt them both through an open window she had been sitting by (almost as if she knew, but the fear on her face, that had been real). Turkáno’s fate was less optimistic. Where he had been when the friendly faces of several Lords turned instead to ice was unknown. Perhaps he had also been detained, brutally torn from whatever it was he had been doing. Perhaps he had managed to fight, to slip away like a shade into shadows where he could observe and plan and rally those still on their side. Or in fighting had received a wound that now crippled him more than chains would, a wound that left him fevered and dazed and somewhere nearing the ghostly arms of his late wife.

(Or perhaps his hands had joined those other wicked ones that had held him and bound him and pulled him away from his son, that had beaten Findekáno and roughed up one already ill, that had dared to breach the unspoken contract that protected all ailing elves from retribution even if they were of Fëanáro’s get. Perhaps Ñolofinwë’s own son had not meant for things to go so far, to simply receive the justice for his wife and friends and people denied to him. Turkáno had not been pleased to have been housing one of the key betrayers from Losgar, but even he had looked away upon seeing his cousin’s ruined form. Surely he would not place his own daughter at risk, would not betray his father and brother to more angry Lords. Surely Ñolofinwë did him a disservice, surely.

And surely this was how Fëanáro had felt when the paranoia first began to take root in him.)

As for his nephew- Earlier Ñolofinwë had heard Maitimo’s screaming and had heard its abrupt end. Well he wished that it was an end to everything, yet the political creature in him knew better and felt bile at that fact. A hostage was a hostage and a King was an important one. There would be no respite for Fëanáro’s eldest son.

Arafinwë were yet another unknown. Were Findaráto and his siblings kept as their uncle was, hands bound and locked away from everything important? Or had they instead (and the thought itself felt like mutiny) been a part of this horrid nightmare? It pained him to admit, but Ñolofinwë knew that some of those higher up in the Noldor’s ranks had to have orchestrated this. The question was how far up did the betrayal go? When Arafinwë had turned away, his children had all chosen to go onwards through the darkness and the Valar’s displeasure to Arda where there were lands enough for any who wished to own some. For he did not kid himself; greed had been as much a motivator as vengeance for that golden-haired brood. It was not a crime to want one’s own kingdom, but it could so easily turn to nefarious means as a method of procuring one.

_…by treason of kin unto kin…_

Nämo’s Doom rang hollow in his head. Twice betrayed, twice by his own people. Ñolofinwë felt a swell of rage as he wished he could curse them all.

But he was no Fëanáro and his rage was quickly spent, tempered down into a quiet ember that brooded on all which had come to pass. From Alqualondë and its red strained beaches to the white plains of the Helcaraxë Finwë’s second son systematically tore apart and examined everything that he had done, that could have swayed even the most loyal hearts against him (and perhaps not all were swayed and still bided their time to rescue him and his). Every word he said he resaid silently, every plan he devised was pulled apart. He had known that tensions in the Noldor were high, that unrest was stirring even amongst the more peaceful groups, but he had never thought it would end like this.

Where was the freedom and greatness Fëanáro had promised?

Where were his children, his eldest son?

Ñolofinwë looked up as his ears detected the sound of footsteps in the hall. They were slow but purposeful, the echoing making it impossible to determine if there were two sets or ten or one. The Noldor Prince and Lord straightened, adjusting his crumpled clothes, determined not to looked cowed despite the fact he was on his knees. Whoever it was he would face with pride and perhaps they would learn the cost it took to cross Finwë’s second son.

Metal grated across metal as the bolts were undone. Finally the windowless door opened revealing Turkáno’s grieved face.

**Author's Note:**

> Their Sindarin/Quenya names: 
> 
> Fingolfin = Ñolofinwë   
> Fingon = Findekáno   
> Turgon = Turkáno  
> Aredhel = Iríssë  
> Argon = Arakáno   
> Irdil = Itarillë   
> Fëanor = Fëanáro  
> Maedhros = Maitimo  
> Írimë; Lalwendë   
> Finrod = Findaráto


End file.
